A Haunted Lake
by Mnemosyne77
Summary: Part 3 conclusion of the 'Life in Moments' trilogy. Down a deep forest path, through a crop of oak trees, and beside a vast field of wildflowers, there is a lake. It's a wondrous thing but the locals do not go near it after dark.
1. Him

Down a deep forest path, through a crop of oak trees, and beside a vast field of wildflowers, there is a lake.

The local people who live nearby say many things about this lake. They say it is beautiful; its water clear, its bottom firm. They say that those who drink from it do not get ill as they do from other still sources of water.

They bathe there in the summer; using its clear blue waters to wash off the grime of their labour. They laze by its shores and picnic; their children run free around its edge. In winter when the lake freezes over, they skate along its firm crust and flirt by falling over into their lover's arms.

But when darkness comes, they make sure they are locked away in their homes; their doors bolted with cold iron and protected with a cross branch of the Rowan tree. Sprigs of the tree also hang from the tails of their animals: white buds during springtime, red berries in the autumn. There are Rowan trees planted around their small village and some, on looking at it from afar, may even perceive these trees as forming a protective circle.

Of all the tales told abroad in the land of this idyllic lake and its many wonders, many more are whispered of only behind closed and locked doors. When the wind whips around the clustered homes of the nearby villages and all huddle indoors by a roaring fire, stories begin.

Grandfathers, dressed in simple brown trousers and a woollen shirt, lean back in their homemade wooden chairs with a pipe and horrify their grandchildren with the tales. Mothers scoff and tell their fathers to stop frightening the children. But they do not go out after dark nonetheless.

"Your mother doesn't approve," says this Grandfather, his hair white from age and yellow from the years of smoking his tobacco.

"But I tell you," he whispers and leans forward. The children, having finished eating their small but nourishing meal, lean towards him as his voice drops to a conspiratorial tone, "there are demons in that lake." He has come close to the firelight and it catches his eyes. They gleam yellow for a moment. The children gasp in fright.

"Demons," he repeats, "faeries too. And not the tricky leprechaun the Celtic travellers speak of, no. These faeries are malicious; their motives so unlike ours that we can have no hope of discerning them. The faeries live within the lake and they say they protect the way."

"The way to where?" asks one of the children breathlessly. He's one of the more precocious and is brave enough to ask these type of questions. The children have all heard this story many times before but go through the same ritual each time.

"The way to the sidhe, the immortal devils who live in Avalon, the apple isle where lies the body of our great King Arthur."

"Who's King Arthur?" inquires a small voice. It's the baby of the group and the others look at him with disgust. They've can't believe anyone could be stupid enough not to know who King Arthur is but this is the child's first time beside the fire with his elder brothers and sisters.

Their Grandfather simply smiles, rocks back in his chair, and takes another puff off his pipe.

"Ah, King Arthur," he begins, his eyes losing the room around him and focusing on a long-ago past.

"King Arthur was the King of Camelot. It is Camelot's ruins that are nearby. But when I was a boy, oh, the spires of Camelot rose up out of the valley and could be seen for miles in the distance; a great beacon of prosperity. I was but a youth, but I still remember its wealth and beauty."

He closes his eyes and sees the fortified castle in his mind's eye.

"I was a servant; a peasant farmer come to Camelot to seek my fortune. Unknown. Unimportant. But I remember."

"How did Camelot fall?"

It's the eldest again; the precocious one. Although they've sat by this fireside and heard tales of the faeries walking by night; stealing children and livestock, and taking people's souls to Avalon, they have never heard this before. Tales of Arthur's greatness but never a word of Arthur's fall.

His Grandfather smiles in close-mouthed irony. He opens his deep blue eyes and looks at the children before them.

"Some say it was because of a woman. Guinevere for betraying him with Lancelot; Morgana for joining Mordred and the Druids. But that's not true. Such things sadden us and distract us and make good stories for men to tell about the perfidy of women, but they do not make Kingdoms fall."

"No, Camelot's fall was due to many things over many years."

He grinned; one of his deep vibrant grins that light up his face.

"But that makes a poor story, doesn't it? No, if I had to choose one person on whom to blame Camelot's fall then my choice is clear."

His face falls and he looks for a moment sad; agelessly sad. The children are too young to recognise such an emotion but his daughter is not and she touches his shoulder before spreading a blanket across his knees.

"If one person only is to blame... then that person is Merlin."

"The warlock?" breathes the eldest, entranced.

"There's no such thing as magic," says the youngest, with all the certainty available only to those who are four years old.

"Oh, there is," says his Grandfather, "and Merlin was the most powerful sorcerer in all of Albion."

"But he was Arthur's friend, wasn't he?" asked the eldest, "I never heard that he betrayed him."

"He didn't, he did something much worse."

He closes his eyes again and breathes on his pipe, taking deep breaths of the drug into his lungs before finishing his sentence.

"He failed him."

* * *

Down a deep forest path, through a crop of oak trees, and beside a vast field of wildflowers, there is a lake.

The local people who live nearby say many wondrous things about this lake but they never venture there after dark. Once the night falls, they make sure they are locked away in their homes; their doors bolted with cold iron and protected with a cross branch of the Rowan tree.

There is only one of their number who dares to approach its waters after dark. He has tucked his grandchildren into bed and finished his daughter's chores so she will be unburdened in the morning. Story time over, he wanders to the lake's edge, his age falling off him as he walks; the lie he wraps around himself to protect those he cares about from his immortality melting away.

He stands there looking toward Avalon, time slowed down as the faeries dance fearfully before his bright blue eyes and deep black hair. They are disturbed by his powerful presence.

"I'm sorry Arthur," he says softly.

And he sits there till dawn. Then he stands and slowly walks back toward his new home.


	2. Her

**A/N Proving once and for all that I am incapable of writing a one-shot...**

There is a place that is no place. It exists without form; it is a form without existence. It is everywhere and nowhere; it is an answer without a question, a question that has never been voiced. It hides from sight; its entrance seen only by those with the right power or the right need. It is a place of wonder, a place of terror, a place of ordinary miracles. A land beyond the Veil.

It is a land of contrasts: a place of immortality, and a place of death. It is ruled by nine healing women who guard the selflessness of the world and protected by the vicious Sidhe who guard nothing but their own selfish existence.

It is Avalon.

Beside an apple orchard always in full bloom, beyond the lake that provides entrance to the island, lies a translucent tomb. Contained within is the body of a man not yet at middle age with hair the colour of sunflowers in bloom and a close-cropped beard of straw upon his chin. His eyes are closed and underneath his still white hands rests a sword inscribed with the words 'take me up' and 'cast me away'.

Here the once and future King of Albion sleeps the sleep of death.

"How are you today, my Arthur?" says a soft voice and a white hand glides across the top of his crystal cage.

She is one of the nine, come here to tend him. The others see his presence as a fact; something that is. But she needs to be with him sometimes; her work in maintaining the world's balance paused now and then so she can commune with the man she has tended the past forty years.

Sometimes when she allows herself to see the time that has passed, she looks in surprise at her unlined hands: youth and immortality are the gifts for her service.

"Who would have thought I would be given such a prize after all my mistakes," she whispers to him.

"We all make mistakes," says a voice behind her. It is Argante, her sister, who guides all those who live in Avalon.

"What matters is whether we learn from them."

She smiles, ironically, once again the stubborn maid she had been. It was the kind of sentiment she used to dismiss as clichéd. Still, if she had learnt more quickly from her mistakes, maybe the body of this man would not be lying here now.

"He comes again," remarks Argante, "he walks once more upon the shore."

"I know," she says, softly, her eyes focused on the tomb. She can not meet Argante's eyes when they talk about this, "I can feel him. It is every night now."

"His age weighs upon him. He feels guilt. It tugs on us. It is a _warping_ of the balance. Perhaps..."

"Yes," she interrupts, "I've decided to see him, to travel over and talk to him. We cannot all spend our lives with doubt and blame. They are poor companions in immortality."

"And your children?"

At this, she did meet Argante's eyes and smiled.

"Are children no more. Our son and daughter near forty now and although they have some gifts they do not have their parents' power. They have children of their own. I hear their laughter through the Veil. One has the potential to be a Dragonlord should his Grandfather pass and so will probably never know the power that lies within him. There are no Dragons left anyway. Sometimes I think magic is leaving this world."

"Maybe, but we will always be here," Argante nods toward the man caught in death, "and so will he." She looks at her sister; appraising but not judging.

"Do you regret...?"

"No, I have no regrets. He has raised our children well and cares for them still. All I have wanted was to try to make the world a better place. So many mistakes. I thought I could force the world to be better and look at what I wrought. Healing is a better balm for the world's ill than violence and I have finally found my way.

"But I will see him tonight. I will be with him one last time. And then I will stay in Avalon forever more."

* * *

There is a place that is no place. It exists without form; it is a form without existence. It is everywhere and nowhere; it is an answer without a question, a question that has never been voiced. It lies beyond the Veil.

Beside an apple orchard always in full bloom, beyond the lake that provides entrance to the island, lies a translucent tomb containing the body of the once and future King who will now never need to wake. He is tended by one of nine sisters; the healers who maintain the balance of the world.

Through the orchard walk three of the nine, led by Argante who guides their path in all things.

Night is falling in the world outside and there is one who wishes to travel over to speak to the great man who prowls their borders after dark.

At the shore that is no shore, Argante and Elaine farewell their sister as she says the words of power to force her tiny boat through the rift in the world.

It sails through into the lake, the awakened faeries flitting viciously around her head as the boat steers itself through waters that are preternaturally calm.

The boat moors where the waters lap the shore and she walks across the top of the last expanse of water before coming to rest on the grass, her long white dress appearing as ghostly as her brilliant white skin; her black hair barely visible in the darkness of a moonless night.

He walks down to the waters as he so often does, his glamour shifting off him, the white hair and beard sliding away to reveal features as youthful as those he had when they first met. It is only by his eyes that she sees his age; the deep well of sadness and guilt that plagues him still. The secret will to die that drives his disguise; the facade of age.

She smiles sadly and he walks up to her, raising his hand and placing it against her already-upraised palm. Their fingers intertwine and a ghost of a smile appears on his face as well.

"I was hoping you'd come," he says, "it is getting late. I think that where our family is concerned I will have to 'die' soon."

"Walk with me," she asks, "pretend that we are young again, in Camelot. Pretend it is a time before it all came unwound."

He laughs and for one small moment she sees the happy, carefree young man she once knew.

"Will we pretend to throw me in the stocks as well? Because that's what would have happened if I was caught holding hands with the King's ward."

She laughs with him, easy in his company now all the errors of the past have been forgiven, and they move along the Lake's shore; together one last time.


End file.
